


things that go whump in the night

by littlecupkate



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Banshee Moaning Myrtle, Crack and Angst, Demon Dolores Umbridge, Ghost Colin Creevy, Haunted Houses, Horror, M/M, Zombie Hedwig, autocannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:54:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27232318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlecupkate/pseuds/littlecupkate
Summary: In Tom’s opinion, the problems started as soon as they bought the home....If a piece of real estate is surprisingly cheap, there always will be some hidden problem with it. That's just a fact of life. Unfortunately, when Harry and Tom ignore this, they find they have to deal with something much more sinister than leaky pipes or a faulty foundation.Harry should have run when he had the chance.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 3
Kudos: 56
Collections: distractions 💬 halloween big bang 2020





	things that go whump in the night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goldenzingy46](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenzingy46/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [goldenzingy46](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenzingy46/pseuds/goldenzingy46) in the [Distractions_Halloween_2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Distractions_Halloween_2020) collection. 



> Thank you to Coral for beta'ing this for me, and thank you to Trixie for the awesome title and prompt 
> 
> **Prompt:**
> 
> Muggle!AU: Harry and Tom went to school together, fell in love, and moved in together.
> 
> The problem is, the house is literally haunted with _everything_ it could possibly be haunted with.

In Tom’s opinion, the problems started as soon as they bought the home, even if Harry might have a different take. It had been surprisingly cheap to purchase, despite being a huge estate. That probably should have been a warning sign, but Tom and Harry were so enamored with the idea of owning their own home that it had been easy to brush aside. They had had the house checked out, after all, and it had passed inspection. Every  _ normal _ test had shown that it was fine.

Apparently what the real estate agent hadn’t mentioned was that this house was as paranormal as it could get.

Ghosts, zombies, demons, spirits; name anything you don’t believe in and it was there.

It was only once they were moving in that this information became apparent. When Tom opened his car door the first time they went to the estate as its owners, a god-damned  _ zombie owl _ tried to attack him. It swooped down and headed straight for his eyes. Tom did manage to duck at the last moment, and the owl, unable to stop its momentum, bounced off of the driver's seat and skidded straight into Harry’s leg. Harry, being the bleeding heart he was, carefully picked up the bird, and ran his hands over it, checking for injuries. The owl had only a few feathers out of place—Tom thought it certainly deserved more than that for trying to attack him. Harry ignored the bird’s attempts to peck at his nose, and instead cradled it in his arms.

“Poor thing,” Harry cooed, “don’t worry, I’ll get you all healed up.”

(Later, when they realized what Hedwig was, Harry complimented the owl on how smart it was to aim for a weak point. Tom looked at Harry in disbelief as he continued to coo over the zombie-owl.)

That should have been it. If the  _ zombie-owl that kept trying to eat their brains—that Harry named Hedwig what the actual fuck _ —wasn’t enough of a sign that they should get out, Colin the Friendly Ghost should have been. The chipper creature was waiting for them the minute they opened the door, chattering excitedly and somehow taking pictures with a ghost camera that actually had flash. Like that made any fucking sense.

“Oh wow! It has been so long since someone moved in here—” the ghost started yapping. Tom glared at it, but only got a bright flash in his face for his trouble “—I kept telling Rita that it wasn’t her fault she couldn’t find a buyer—” the real estate agent knew about this? Tom was going to wring her scrawny neck! “—that the right owner would come in time, and you did!” Colin did this ridiculous happy flip in the air, and the camera flashed again. “Luna is going to be so happy! She hasn’t said anything but I know she’s been getting lonely again.”

The ghost sank down a bit, seemingly in sadness. Tom did not look over at Harry, he was sure the kid’s sad face had already won over his husband. Instead, Tom cleared his throat.

“While that is all very…interesting, we did not know about the house’s—” he struggled to get the illogical word past his lips “—peculiarities before we bought it, and now that we do, we won’t be staying.”

Harry glared at Tom. “We haven’t discussed that,” he said, voice edgy.

“What is there to discuss?” Tom asked, “Do you want to live in a haunted house?”

“Maybe I do! If they are all like Colin—”

“—then I’ll absolutely lose my mind before the first week is—”

“—you’re claiming you have any sanity to begin—”

Colin’s giggle stopped the two mid-argument. “You can’t leave,” he said cheerfully. “You bought the house, now you have to stay here with us forever.”

Tom and Harry looked at Colin, then wearily at each other. Neither of them were stupid, and they had watched enough horror movies to have an idea as to where this was heading.

“What do you mean we have to stay here forever?” Harry asked, after a long pause; he had been hoping Tom would say the cliche line instead.

“You own the house; the house owns you,” a gravelly voice said from behind Colin. “You should have run.” They got the briefest glimpse of a ghostly old man with a peg leg, who vanished before it actually appeared. “Constant vigilance, boys; constant vigilance, and maybe you’ll be spared the cruelest of fates.”

Tom, despite his initial feelings, grew grateful for Colin’s presence. It was not that he was the only non-malicious spirit around, but rather that he was the only  _ useful _ one. Some of the other spirits were definitely more pleasant to be around, but of the ones that paid attention to the house’s new owners, the Weasley twins thought it was funny to let you be surprised by a swamp creature in the shower (Tom wasn’t sure if they really qualified as non-malicious, but Harry said they did), Hermione always forgot to say something until  _ after _ whatever monstrous entity that was waiting popped up, and Luna was too stuck in her own mind to be of any help whatsoever.

Colin, however, would pop in right before Tom or Harry put their hand on the door knob, and say something like “Oh! You don’t want to go in there, that’s where the ghouls hang out!” or “I would try a different bathroom, that one belongs to Myrtle.” Then he would snap a picture and while the flash blinded them, he would disappear again.

Tom had only ignored Colin’s warnings once. He had pressed, and Colin had told him that that warning was really about an annoyance, not a danger. And so he was graced with the presence of the Malfoy family; a wife, husband, and son who had taken one of the drawing rooms for themselves and were complete snobs.

The only danger they possessed, as far as Tom could tell, was to what small amount of sanity he had left after living in the house for a couple of weeks. But still, Tom resolved to follow Colin’s advice. Ignoring it wasn’t worth the headache that followed, nor the numerous ‘told-you-so’s that Tom was taunted with afterwards.

Tom opened the door to what he thought was one of the rooms that was safe, which he was planning to make into a study. But instead of the dark wood desk he had expected, he was confronted with the specter of a young girl with long hair.

“DIE!” she screeched and flew towards him, “DIE! YOUR LIFE IS SHORT. NOT MUCH LONGER NOW AND YOU’LL BE GONE, DIE!”

After that, all Tom could hear was high-pitched singing that sounded more like screeching. For some reason, he could not move at all. His feet were stuck to the floor.

Tom felt something wet drip out of his ear, but he could not reach his hand up—not to check if it was the blood, though he knew it was, and certainly not to cover his ears and try to block out the pain. The spirit was right in front of his face, her mouth open wide. If she were alive, he would be able to feel the spittle that surely would have been flying out of her mouth. Slowly, her hands reached up towards him.

“DIE, DIE, DIE,” The screeching turned into some sort of mesmerizing chant. In the back of his mind, he wondered where Harry was. He had to be hearing this, the beautiful words that spilled out of this being’s lips. “DIE, DIE, DIE.” He should find Harry. He deserved to hear this too.

Tom’s feet began to move. Strangely, he thought, not in the direction that he had last seen Harry—the attic that housed the Weasley twins—but instead towards the singer who was slowly backing up.

Of course, really, it just made sense. Harry would join him eventually anyway and he could wait here for his love. Then…then…then…

No, that wasn’t right.

“DIE, DIE, DIE.”

Tom held out his hand and felt blessed when the being took it in hers. He noticed that her skin seemed to be that of an old lady’s now, not smooth like the young girl she had appeared to be. It didn’t matter. It still felt nice in his. The skin under his eyes felt wet; he figured the music must have brought him to tears. It made perfect sense.

Tom fell to his knees. The impact was hard against the marble floor, and at the very least he would have bone-deep bruises. He didn’t even feel it. He didn’t hear the loud thud his motion made. The blessed being’s eyes were on his and he could only see her wrinkled face, could only feel her hand holding his, could only hear the chant she sung.

“DIE. DIE. DIE.”

The chant she sang for him.

More liquid coated his face and head. He remembered her words,  _ YOUR LIFE IS SHORT. NOT MUCH LONGER NOW AND YOU’LL BE GONE, DIE! _ , and realized that whatever she spoke was true. Wasn’t it so nice that he had received this warning? He wouldn’t struggle against the black slime that seemed to ooze from the walls. What would be the point?

The bathroom door started to close…

“TOM!” Oh, how nice, Harry was here now. He would keep him company. “Tom! Snap out of it! TOM!”

The black slime seemed to be retreating, how odd. Suddenly, Tom realized that the old crone was fading from view. Harry’s concerned face was now all he could see.

“Tom, do you need to go to the hospital? Tom!”

Harry called out to him over the background noise of “DIE! DIE! DIE!” that had not left his ears. It wasn’t beautiful chanting anymore, but the screeching he had first heard. Tom felt a moment of resentment towards Harry for bringing back such an ugly sound. He then registered the tears on his husband’s face, and his obvious despair.

“Harry,” Tom couldn’t hear his own voice but he was pretty sure he said the name out loud. Why Harry just cried harder, he couldn’t understand. “Are you okay?”

Later, after they had left Myrtle’s bathroom and Tom had cleaned off the blood; Colin apologized. “I forgot that the house likes to move things around sometimes.” He twisted his fingers and looked guilty. Harry assured him it was fine, that there was no permanent harm, so everything was okay! Colin gave them a doubtful look, but with further reassurances—including one from Tom when Harry elbowed him—he smiled again, and disappeared with a camera flash.

Tom tried to ignore the screeching that he could still hear echoing in his ears.

“Why did it take you so long to come?” Tom asked, his tone flat.

“What?”

“Why didn’t you come for me earlier? Having too much fun with the Weasleys? Couldn’t spare a moment to check out the  _ demonic screeching _ ?”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Tom, I couldn’t hear anything. I didn’t even know you were in trouble until Luna said something!”

“You…you couldn’t hear it?” Tom sounded completely disbelieving. “How? It was impossible to miss!” As he got more worked up, the screeching in his ears grew louder and more painful.

“I think it was—”  _ DIE! _ “—meant for you.” Harry said quietly. “I’m not—”  _ DIE! _ “—supposed to hear it.”  _ DIE! _

“Meant for me?” Tom's voice rose as he tried to hear himself over the screeching in his ears. “Your theory is that you couldn’t hear it because it was meant for me?”

“You don’t have to shout,” Harry said, sounding annoyed. He then stopped and hesitated for a minute. When he spoke again, his tone was much gentler, “Tom, I never heard any screeching.”

“What?”

“It’s true. I—”

“—What are you saying?” Tom interrupted, frustrated at watching Harry’s lips move out of sync with the words his brain told him he was saying. Die! “I can’t hear you!” He refused to believe that Harry was telling him to die. He absolutely refused.

“I”  _ DIE!  _ “DIDN’T”  _ DIE! _ “HEAR”  _ DIE! _ “ANY”  _ DIE! _ “SCREECHING!”

“Of course you didn’t.” Tom crossed his arms, “did you see anything? It was still there when you came into the bathroom.”

“I didn’t see anything,” Harry shook his head. He hurried to add onto his statement at Tom’s frustrated, almost despairing, look. “It doesn’t mean anything that I didn’t hear it. This is a haunted house! I’m sure it was real—”

“I know it was real!” Tom snapped. “I know I’m not crazy! I don’t need you to tell me that,” Tom took a deep breath then shook his head. “Nevermind, it doesn’t matter. I’m sure it’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

“You still hear it?” Harry asked. Tom was getting better at playing attention to Harry’s words rather than the screeching. However, every time he willingly ignored it, the screeching grew more painful.

“Don’t worry about it. I just want to sleep.” Harry knew that voice meant Tom was done with the discussion. With a sigh, he let the subject drop. He didn’t usually give in, but he thought Tom had had enough stress that day; he could spare him the argument for the night. If it was still there in the morning, he would argue Tom into submission.

Tom’s groan woke Harry up. That was not odd. Although Tom would place Hedwig as far away from them as he could at night time, by morning she always managed to find her way into their room. Tom woke up to Hedwig’s pecks at his nose (another vulnerable spot—Harry really was proud) and Harry was awoken by Tom’s reaction. Lazily, Harry waved his hand above him.

“Hedwig, no,” he muttered, “I’ll get you some owl brains in a minute…”

Instead of settling her down, like it usually did, Hedwig squawked loudly. Harry ruched up his nose and reluctantly opened his eyes. As he gained awareness, Harry realized that something felt…off. His hair felt heavier than it usually did, as strange as that sounded. He reached up to touch it, and his hand came away red and wet. Harry’s eyes widened and he looked down at Tom.

He looked as unruffled as a person could be while they were covered in their own blood. He sat up now that Harry had removed his weight from him.

“It looks worse than it is,” he said.

Harry looked at him with wide eyes. He looked down at his hand. For…for the blood to still be wet…Tom must have been bleeding all night. He showed his palm to Tom, expecting some reaction greater than a shrug, which was what he received.

“You’re going to the doctor,” Harry said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He still only received another shrug in response. “I’ll drive.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now,” he snapped, worry making his voice harsh. “That is not normal!”

Tom turned his thousand-yard stare towards Harry. He was scared. That was a look he had never seen on his husband before. Sure, occasionally he looked haunted, but never like this. “Of course it’s not normal.”

With much poking and prodding, Harry got Tom up and dressed. Washing the blood out of his hair and off Tom’s body was probably the most harrowing task.

It all turned out to be useless.

According to the doctors, there was nothing wrong with Tom. There was no evidence of lacerations. Not in his ears, not anywhere else. They did notice Tom’s blank look and asked if he wanted to speak to someone. Harry was almost grateful that they asked. It made Tom snap back to himself for a second. Long enough to harshly rebuke the doctors, at least. Sadly, it did not last. The ride back to the house—Harry could no longer call it a home—was silent.

Inside the door, Colin and Luna were waiting for them.

“You weren’t cleansed with the tears of your love,” she told them. “You won’t stop suffering now. Not until the banshee is proven right.” Luna floated up through the ceiling, leaving silence in her wake.

Both men turned their gazes to Colin. He fidgeted. “I asked Luna if she knew anything to help you all. She said she had a message from the nargles,” he said with a shrug.

“Why would Luna know anything?” Tom scoffed. Harry was glad to see he hadn’t totally turned into a zombie. Apparently things he thought were stupid would still snap him out of his haze. “She died here too, didn’t she? And what does that even mean?” Tom asked.

Colin looked even more uncomfortable, “Well, it means whatever Myrtle said is gonna happen. The aftereffects won’t go away until it does.”

“What—what did she say?” Harry knew he was being deliberately obtuse. He couldn’t help it. Maybe…maybe he was wrong…

“Die,” Tom replied, interrupting Harry’s thoughts, “she told me life is short and I’m going to die.”

“You’re…you’re not gonna die,” Harry said, his voice hysterical. “That—no—that’s not going to happen.”

Tom didn’t want to die, obviously. He planned on accomplishing much more, and making his name go down in history books. He wanted to deny that it would happen, but between the liquid filling his ears, and the screeching that had still not disappeared—well, it was hard to deny the truth.

Telling Harry that wouldn’t help anything, however, so Tom just reached out and pulled him to his chest, holding him tight. His words got harder and harder to hear as his ears once more filled with blood. Tom hoped it didn’t start dripping out of his ears. Harry wouldn’t be able to handle that.

Harry said something. Tom could feel the vibrations his voice caused against his chest, but couldn’t hear anything. He pet Harry’s hair soothingly. Apparently that was the wrong response, since Harry pulled back and glared at him. Now that Tom could see his lips, he could figure out what Harry was saying.

“You are not going to die. We are leaving this house.” He paused, “We’re leaving it…and we’re gonna burn the whole place down as we do.”

Tom wasn’t sure if that would help him, considering the only way he knew what the doctors were saying at the hospital was through lip-reading ( _ DIE! DIE! DIE! _ It would not stop pounding), but he nodded anyway. Like hell he was going to let Harry stay in this house any longer. With his luck…there was really no telling what type of trouble he would get himself into. Especially since Tom wouldn’t be there to protect him anymore.

Harry turned away from him, so Tom could not understand what he was saying, but his determined march towards the door made it pretty clear what he was doing.

_ DIE! DIE! DIE! _ the screeching in his ears got more high-pitched, faster, and impossibly louder. He tried to follow Harry, but once again, his body wouldn’t obey him. Tom watched Harry get closer to the door in terror—an honest terror he had only ever felt when Harry landed himself in the hospital. A terror that told him that Harry, his soul, his everything, was not going to make it. The warning of death had never been for him. It had been for—

Harry put his hand on the knob, turned it, and the door swung open.

Nothing had happened.

He was safe. Of course he was safe; Tom was still hearing his own death song. And he still wasn’t moving.

“Tom!” Harry looked worried, “come on!”

“You’re just going to leave everything here?” he asked, hoping to maybe delay Harry just a little bit.

“They are not as important as getting out of here.”

Tom didn’t disagree, but he was still sure that he would not be able to move an inch. He tried to lift one thousand-pound foot. Instead of his foot coming off the ground,  _ (DIE!) _ he heard a pop  _ (DIE!) _ , and felt a sharp pain  _ (DIE!) _ . He did not remember falling, but it made perfect sense to him that he would end up sprawled on the floor, one leg completely useless.

He realized that the screeching had just kept getting louder. He was so relieved that the death chant wasn’t for Harry that he didn’t notice previously. But, it had been getting louder. It was getting faster. It sounded like someone was wailing straight into his ear.

Tom felt liquid run down his neck. There was a wetness gathering below his nose. His red tears could not be explained away as a natural reaction to pain.

The last thing he saw was Harry running towards him in panic.

Harry should have run when he had the chance.

If Tom were…If Tom were speaking instead of lying in his arms gushing blood, he would have told Harry to run. He would have yelled at Harry for staying there. ‘What use is this to me?’ he would have asked, ‘I’m already d—’

No, he couldn't think about that. Not yet. If blood was still coming out then there had to be a heart still pumping it. There had to be something making it  _ move _ . Harry ducked his head down and put his ear to Tom's chest.

There was a heartbeat. He knew there was. That he couldn't hear it right now meant nothing. Because it was there. He was in the wrong position or something. That was all—

the door slammed shut.

Harry jumped. The blood had made Tom's body  _ (not a dead body, not a dead body) _ slippery. It fell from his arms, causing him a head injury. Tom was so annoying with those, but Harry supposed he could spare some pity for him this time…

The blood slowed.

Harry looked at the door, to tear his gaze away from what was not a corpse. It was firmly shut. Somehow, he knew it would never open for him again.

Harry didn’t go into the entry hall anymore. He couldn’t bear to move Tom’s body or to bury it, but he also couldn’t bear to see the blood-covered sack of skin everyday. Really, he did not want to see what became of Tom’s corpse.

Was he lying in all of his bodily waste? Was he decomposing? Had Hedwig decided to eat his brain? Had one of the many hell creatures stolen the body away? What would they do with it? He didn’t want to know how Tom was being desecrated. It was pretty easy to avoid the entry hall anyway.

What wasn’t as easy to avoid was the evidence of Tom’s violent death. There was blood tracked everywhere. In their—his—bedroom, on the stairs, in the hallway, in the bathroom, the kitchen. Blood. Dried dirty brown blood. On his arms, on his hands, on his face, in his hair; blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.

Harry couldn’t bear to remove anything that was once a part of Tom. He just silently hated, silently loved, the life that was spilled all over the house.

The thing was, blood and grief was a dangerously attractive mix. It called out to all that fed on pain and misery, all that existed just to witness the suffering of humans. Under ordinary circumstances, Harry would be tempting them. While he was in that house, with that mixture, he was pleading for them to come after him.

And so they did.

After all, it would be rude to ignore the buffet he had prepared for them.

Tom stood guard over his body for three days. He kept away the creatures that would consume his flesh, and waited for Harry to return. On the third day, Tom realized that there wasn’t much hope of Harry realizing what he had without prompting.

They lived in a place of the dead, some fully corporeal. Their existence was proof the dead didn’t always stay dead. There must be some way for him to also come back, as more than he currently was.

With an aggravated sigh, Tom left his body and went to find Harry. He would just have to hope no nasty creature ruined his skin suit while he was gone.

He found Harry in what used to be their bedroom. It was a sad image. Harry lay on the blood-stained bed sheets, his head resting exactly where Tom’s used to lay. His skin was rusted over, his hair matted down. The only clean spots on his body were two narrow, wavy lines running down his face. His eyes were open, but he was still motionless. Of course he was—Harry could rarely ever be that still to begin with, and he certainly was not in his sleep. He stared at something far off. Something that was probably so far it wasn’t even on the same plane of existence.

Tom had always wanted someone who was just his. He wanted someone who would need him, who would build their life around him. He wanted to be the person’s sole reason for existence. And so the universe had gifted him Harry.

Harry, who had become Tom’s everything in return. Unlike what he had thought before he met him, it was impossible for someone to build their world around yours without you also building a bit around them. Harry needed Tom, and Tom needed him just as much. In the end, Harry hadn’t really built an existence around Tom. They had built an existence together.

Tom had been granted his wish. And, unbeknownst to Tom, Harry had also been granted his. They loved each other. They were each other’s dream. They were each other’s  _ everything _ . It was a beautiful, messy, all-consuming love that made them thrive.

And now, for the first time, Tom was wondering if what he thought of as a great gift, was actually a curse.

He had never wanted to see Harry as broken as he was then. He had never thought about how their lives would be if one of them died. He had never pondered what death would mean. It just hadn’t been real to him.

But now it was. And he had to deal with the consequences of that reality.

Tom floated up to Harry, worried when Harry’s eyes didn’t focus on his ghostly form. “Darling,” Tom called gently.

There was no sign that Harry had heard him. Tom continued to talk to him, figuring he was just speaking too softly. By the time he was yelling, he could not fool himself any longer.

Harry wasn’t able to hear him.

Well, that complicated his plans a bit.

The most insidious demon Harry’s grief summoned was named Umbridge. Her peers typically called her Umbitch, but it was not an insult amongst them. Umbridge specialized in bringing people who were low, lower. She liked to make her victims immortalize their worst memories. Then she would find a way to make it worse for them.

Harry was an especially interesting victim to Umbridge. His worst memory was just too  _ easy _ for her to use. Besides, he was already torturing himself with it as well as anyone could. Harry didn’t have a second worst memory. He just had a delicious combination of equally horrible memories from his childhood.

It inspired Umbridge.

She scared off the other demons who aspired to feed on Harry.

This one, she wanted to herself.

She wanted to break his mind, break his heart, break his body before she let him fall into the abyss where he would never find his lover again. She wanted to take their afterlife away, break any chance at a happy post-ending.

Umbridge knew that his dead lover was watching them. She had the extra challenge of making this a good show. Harry’s mind was easily manipulated. She didn’t have to coax him at all. All her subconscious commands were obeyed. He was already sleep-walking. There was nothing there to fight her.

Harry didn’t know why or how he had ended up in the cupboard under the stairs. He really didn’t know why he ended up in  _ this _ cupboard either. It was perpendicular to the front hall. When he opened the door, he was always greeted with Tom’s corpse. Last he remembered, he had been avoiding that area. Harry didn’t have the energy to figure the mystery out or move. Tom’s bloody pillow and sheets were shoved in the cupboard with him. He was not just laying on him now, but utterly surrounded by his husband. Perhaps it was better this way.

His day started like it had when he had been a small child. Harry woke up to sawdust falling on him and shadows in the corners that looked like spiders. He still remembered where he was, and he didn’t think they were actual spiders. He was surprised they hadn’t attacked him for invading their territory yet. They weren’t his friends, like the spiders in his first cupboard, but it seemed they were not his enemies either.

He would crawl out of the cupboard and stare listlessly at Tom’s body. It was stunningly well-preserved, but it would sometimes shift in front of his eyes. It was fine. It was not. It was whole. There was a gaping hole in his chest. His body was miraculously clean. There was so much red, Harry could not tell if Tom even had skin or not. He could see his bones. He couldn’t.

He didn’t know what was real. He didn’t know if he wanted to know. There was a strange sort of comfort in losing your mind.

Harry never went far. There was a knife and pen within arm’s reach. They were all he needed anyway. The pen tested if he would be allowed to eat or not.

_What is your name?_ **Harry James Potter-Riddle**

 _How old are you?_ **Twenty-eight**

 _Are you married?_ **Yes**

_ Wrong, you are a widower. Remember you must not tell lies. _

**I must not tell lies** , Harry wrote five times over. Each line cutting into his skin and further scarring him.

_ Are you married?  _ was the question Harry always failed to answer correctly. The rest of them were easy. Yes, he was worthless. Yes, the Dursleys were correct about him. Yes, he must have tricked Tom—someone that wonderful would never have married him otherwise. Yes, he was awful.  _ Are you married? _ Silence, then five more lines cut into his skin.

It would continue for hours until:  _ Are you scared? _

Harry would hesitate. Yes, he was scared to live without Tom. No, he was not scared of what was happening to him right now. There was no clear answer, but he knew the one that was desired.  **Yes.**

_ You may eat tonight. _ Harry didn’t smile; his expression didn’t change at all. It was objectively a good thing for him to eat. It was less tortuous to eat than what would happen when he said he was not scared.

Harry picked up the knife, and pulled up his pant leg. Off with the last of his toes—the cupboard’s low ceiling wasn’t the only thing that caused Harry to crawl instead of walk. He didn’t want to choke on the bones, so he split it open. He removed the nail, and his bones. His toes weren’t much of a meal, but he didn’t want to ask for more. He was not sure if he was prepared to give himself more.

Harry knew by now that he was not allowed to close his eyes and swallow, pretending he was eating something else. He kept his eyes on his detached toe until it was too close to his face to keep looking. Without hesitation, he popped it into his mouth. And chewed. If he didn’t chew, he would have to do it after he puked up his meal. It was rubbery, but tasted like what he imagined any other uncooked meat would taste like. At least that was what he told himself.

Harry was allowed to put down the knife, and pull himself back into his cupboard. He cupped his hands around the blood that collected around his foot. For some reason, it was always healed when he woke up. He would become dizzy and pass out from the blood loss, but he was never allowed to die from it. Harry let the blood coat his hands, then lay down and tucked himself into the sheets from his and Tom’s bed. He savored the fact that his blood would stain them as Tom’s had done. It was the closest he could be to him. He would take it.

Tom sat on—or really floated above—his corpse. In theory, it was the best place for him to be. When he came back to it, little shadow rats were already poking around it. They scattered when Tom took his place, and so far nothing else had tried to bother his body. He wondered if there was some taboo of messing with a ghost's body while they were watching over it. It was the only explanation he could think of. 

Yes, in theory it was the absolute perfect place for him to be.

But that was only in theory.

The cupboard door that Tom had been staring at opened slowly. One arm came out and dragged a thin, dirty, bloody body into view. There was the reason it was only in theory. Tom was only there because Harry was. And Harry was only there because a sadistic, evil demon decided to torture him.

Tom didn't bother restraining himself—no one could see or hear him, it didn't matter--so when Harry cut off yet another toe, he screamed in rage. Dumb, cursed, impotent rage. He was dead, and he could do nothing as the  _ thing _ calling itself Umbridge hurt his love over and over again. He couldn't keep just watching this. But he couldn't let Harry be truly alone in his misery. So, for four days, Tom stood witness. It was the most he could do.

On the fifth day, Tom thought of something better to do. He had realized that those pests were not put off destroying his body by his presence. It was the presence of the demon. Nothing would challenge it. No creature in the house would stand up for Harry (not even Moody or Colin or Luna or those damn Weasleys) because it was too powerful. There was a simple solution, one that Tom was familiar with; he had used it many times in his life before. The way to stop the big, scary thing from preying on you was to become something bigger, badder, and scarier. With a regretful look, Tom left Harry alone. It was a necessary evil. He figured his body would be safe enough. Nothing was coming near where Umbridge was lurking.

Tom knew where he needed to go. With great reluctance, he did his best to follow the trail of his blood back to the source: Myrtle’s bathroom. She was obviously the most powerful creature there. After all, she did succeed in killing him when he had thought himself untouchable.

He paused outside the door he had traced his blood back to. He remembered Colin telling them—too late—that the house liked to change rooms around. He hoped that this would be the place the banshee lurked. Tom wouldn’t admit to being scared, but he would admit to feeling…cautious. The last interaction hadn’t gone well for him, but he hadn’t been prepared. He was now. And he was dead. He had a feeling that would grant him a bit of extra protection.

Tom floated through the door, a determined expression on his face. “Myrtle!” he called out.

It felt weird, calling for his killer—addressing her by name. This was undoubtedly her bathroom. The floor was marble, instead of the usual tile, and black slime was dripping down the walls. Everything was cast in shadow. The only thing missing was the banshee herself.

“Myrtle!” Tom yelled again, “Come here now!”

“No!” a sour voice said. It seemed to come from the toilet. “Go away!”

“No!” Tom stalked over to the toilet, despite how foolish he felt doing so. “You will come out and deal with me! You  _ owe _ me!”

_ That _ actually made Myrtle appear. “I don’t owe you anything!” she screeched. The sound was still painful, but it was not as torturous as it had been when he was living. Being dead was good for something, at least.

“You killed me!”

Myrtle giggled. “Yeah, I did do that.” Her giggle hurt Tom’s ears. “But that doesn’t mean anything!” she pouted, “That’s my job. It’s the only fun thing I get to do!”

Tom snarled, “Your ‘fun thing’ killed me!”

“Yes, that is kind of the point.” Tom absolutely hated the look Myrtle gave him when she said that. She was obviously questioning his intelligence. “It doesn’t mean I owe you anything.”

“My husband is currently being tortured by a sadistic bitch because I am dead!” Tom took a breath and tried to center himself a bit. “Look, I don’t need you to do anything but haunt the entrance hall instead of the bathroom.”

“Why?” Myrtle cocked her head to the side, “what would that do?”

“You are obviously the most powerful creature here,” Myrtle blushed at Tom’s flattery. “I am sure your presence will scare it away.”

“Welllll, maybe,” Myrtle said coyly, “what do I get out of it?”

“A change of scenery,” Tom gritted his teeth, “this place seems pretty depressing place to hang out.”

“That is true,” Myrtle considered. “Okay! I’ll do it! Scaring something will be fun anyway!” Her whole countenance lit up, which looked very strange. “Who am I scaring off?”

“It calls itself Umbridge.”

Myrtle froze, stopping half-way through the floor, so only her upper torso was showing.

“Umbridge?” she asked.

Tom hesitated, but replied anyway. “Yes, Umbridge.”

Myrtle shot up and dove back into the toilet. “NO!”

“What?!?” Tom shouted at the toilet, “What do you mean ‘no’!?”

“You tried to trick me but it won’t work!” Myrtle screeched. Tom winced; that hurt almost as much as it had when he was alive. “I won’t do it!!”

“How did I trick you?” Tom yelled back in frustration. “It’s just one ugly toad! Why can’t you deal with it?”

“I won’t!” Myrtle screeched, “I’m not going to become a victim of  _ that _ !”

Those were the last words Myrtle said. No matter how much Tom yelled, shouted, threatened, and occasionally pleaded, she wouldn’t respond. It was useless, but Tom didn’t give up. There had to be something.

Eventually, something did happen.

There was a response. Not from Myrtle, she kept her silence (except for a little squeak when the other thing appeared), but from something that made Tom realize the flaw in his brilliant plan to help Harry. To defeat Umbridge, he had to summon something bigger, badder, and scarier. He had to summon something even more heinous than it was. Something even more vicious. 

Then, he had to stand tall in front of that monster, convince it to do his bidding, and nothing more.

Luckily, Tom was very self-assured, very determined, and very manipulative. But mainly—he could be very, very stupid. In this case, that served him well.

Tom believed that being dead made him near-invincible. It allowed him to swallow his fear, and negotiate with the demon. Because that was what it must have been. Nothing else could have such a presence. When it had arrived, the black slime that clung to the walls both retreated and grew. It seemed to reach out towards the shadow creature that had arrived, then drew back as if realizing it was not worthy. It continued its dance again, and again; hoping that at some point the creature would reach back—it never did. It convalesced in front of Tom, stretching and shrinking its shadows until it looked almost human—although the limbs seemed to be much too long. It leered over Tom— closer than he was comfortable with.

“You summoned me?” its voice boomed.

Tom didn’t think he had, but its presence was potentially advantageous for him so he did not argue the statement. “Yes.”

The demon laughed, a bit mockingly. “Well what is it that you wish? And how do you plan to pay me? The dead typically don’t have much to offer.”

“I want you to kill the thing that calls itself Umbridge.” He sounded like Harry. The statement was too blunt for Tom, but needs must. “As for an offering: do you really need one? Isn’t killing that  _ thing _ a reward all on its own?”

“It is,” the demon put its hand on his chin, and pretended to consider the offer, “but I don’t need your permission to wipe Umbitch out of existence. I could do that any time I pleased. What else do you have to offer?” It paused. “Or would you like me to just tell you what the cost will be?”

Tom wasn’t given time to answer. The demon solidified. It was no longer shadows but a mirror image of himself. “If you give me your corpse to possess, I will free your boy of Umbridge.”

Tom could be very, very stupid, but he wasn’t  _ that _ stupid. “No.”

It expanded into shadows then compacted into a human shape again, absent of features. “You are refusing the chance to grant your husband peace?”

“I don’t trust that offering,” he crossed his arms. “In addition to vanquishing Umbridge, I offer you the house.”

The demon took Tom’s form again, just so it could raise an eyebrow at him. “You offer me the house? Why would I accept that? How do you have the authority to bargain with it?”

“My name is on the deed, why wouldn’t I have that authority?” The demon gave him an expression of disbelief. “I may be dead, but as of now, legally, it is still my house.”

“That was a clever trick to try to play,” the demon responded. “I don’t let myself be used, however. Here is what I will offer you: eternal servitude—”

“Agreed!” Tom said before the demon could continue. While he was normally very, very stupid, on occasion he could be amazingly intelligent. “I accept your servitude. My first order is to get that demon out of my house, and away from my husband!”

The demon laughed. “Another good attempt,” it responded, “but no, it doesn’t work like that.” It grinned, sharp teeth on display. “You are an amusing, persistent thing. Why do _ you _ not just hound Umbridge out of  _ your _ house?”

Tom blinked in surprise. He could have done it himself? He could have saved Harry days ago by doing it  _ himself _ ?!?

“I doubt you could actually do it,” the demon hastened to say. It did not want to lose out on its deal.

Tom, however, was already making plans in his head. It probably wouldn’t be easy, but if he were distracting her, at least Harry would be granted a reprieve…

“I accept your bargain!” the demon shouted. “You give me control of the house and all its inhabitants, and I will banish Umbridge.”

“No, I think I will try it your way…”

“Bless you, idiot!” the demon cursed then dove into Tom’s spirit. “That is a fucking stupid plan! I can’t believe you are supposed to be my successor!”

Tom didn’t know why he could still feel things, but he very much hated that he could. It felt like his heart was being pulled out of his chest. It felt like his skin was on fire—no, it felt like his skin was fire, scorching the bone, and fat, and muscle it had previously protected. He was going to turn to ash, he would be nothing more than just charred remains by the time it was done. He didn’t even have any physical nerves to receive stimuli—he wished he did, he was sure they would be so damaged by now that he would have stopped feeling pain—it didn’t make sense that this all hurt so damn much.

“I don’t want to see you for at least another three centuries. Your very existence offends me.”

Tom’s whole being broke and healed itself until it was shaped around those words, until it was seared into his mind.

Then, it all stopped. Or at least, all the pain did. The demon disappeared but the slime on the wall was still reaching out and pulling back. It was begging for his attention now, Tom realized, and turned away from it. His spirit was coal black. There were no more hands or legs or feet, all he was was shadow.

But he did have a corpse that he could easily possess. It would probably feel just like home too.

If Tom’s spirit had had any shape left, it would have been grinning.

Tom’s body moved. Harry didn’t think it was odd. He was sure it was just another delusion. His eyes stayed on it, of course, but that was what his eyes always lingered on if he was not forced to look at something else. The body was dirty, but intact. It was moving fluidly. This was one of the better delusions. He was glad he was allowed to watch it.

He didn’t notice that he was allowed to watch because Umbridge’s eyes were also glued to the now-moving corpse. It wasn’t something in his head. And it wasn’t something that she was using to torture him. The corpse was moving without direction from either of them.

The corpse snapped its fingers. Nothing happened. Although Tom’s features were still covered in blood, Harry could tell the corpse was making a frustrated expression. (Tom heard the words “figure it out your damn-self,” in his head.) Still, it moved forward. It stopped about a meter away from Harry and looked up.

“Leave.” Surprisingly, it sounded exactly like Tom did, just a bit more intense—which was impressive considering how intense Tom could get.

Umbridge tittered in response, although Harry was not able to hear that. “No,” it said in a sickly sweet voice. “You should respect your elders,” Umbridge added.

“You should respect your hosts,” Tom snapped. “This is my home. It is my haunt. You are not welcome here. Leave!”

“It doesn’t work like that,” it taunted. “You can’t make me leave just by claiming the house. You need to actually fight for it.” Its pink lips pulled back into something that was more of a snarl than a smile.

“Gladly,” Tom growled back. It was what he really wanted anyway—a chance to repay her all the pain she caused his Harry.

He lunged at Umbridge, dropping possession of his body as he did so.

Harry was only able to see his husband’s body hit the floor once more.

“It’s not real,” he started to whisper to himself. He knew that it was just a delusion, but it was so close to him. The poor, abused corpse. It was just a delusion. His husband’s body was further away from him, and in perfect shape. That was what Harry must believe. But it was so realistic. He shut his eyes. He would take the punishment for it. He just didn’t want to look at the body any longer.

He completely missed what happened next, and never believed Tom when he retold the story later. No matter how many of their housemates he had convinced to go along with the lie.

See, eventually every creature gets tired of being afraid, and once they reach that point, they will fight back. It was not Tom who defeated Umbridge, not really, or not just him. It was the Weasley twins with their mini-bombs, it was Colin’s camera constantly flashing and distracting her, it was Hermione with her demon cat, it was Luna talking about nargles, it was the Malfoys’ nasty commentary on her fashion sense.

But most of all, it was Hedwig, fucking angry that Umbridge had prevented her from eating Tom’s corpse’s brain. Not only that, but she had stolen the human who would willingly feed her brains too! She had gotten used to the luxury. Who was this bitch to make it so she had to work for her food again?

Sure, Tom helped out too, but his attacks weren’t really anything compared to Hedwig’s and the mental anguish the others caused. Umbridge decided Harry wasn’t interesting enough to be worth all the hassle pretty quickly. Besides, she had already caused irreparable damage. She could move on to her next victim satisfied with herself.

As soon as she left, both Hedwig and Tom raced back to the corpse. The damage from falling on the floor would make it really easy to get to his brains, and Hedwig was looking forward to finally having a good meal. Unfortunately, Tom beat her. She pecked at his head wound for a bit, dodging his swats, but poutily flew off eventually. The brains had been dead for a while. They probably weren’t that tasty, anyway.

Tom settled back into his body with a grimace. He didn’t feel pain from it anymore, but it was in such gross shape. He clapped his hands (if snapping his fingers didn’t work some other motion must) but still nothing happened. With a sigh, Tom reached out to shake Harry’s shoulder.

Harry startled at the gentle touch. Tom’s face darkened. He hadn’t seen Harry react to touch in that way in a long time. He had mostly healed from the trauma the Dursley’s had inflicted upon him, and now this? One day he was going to hurt Umbitch for real. He was going to make what she did to Harry look like child’s play. It might take him a long time to gain the power to take her on as an equal, but that was fine. It just gave him more time to come up with a fitting vengeance.

Tom didn’t have the patience to coax Harry out from whatever place in his mind he had hid himself in. Tom enveloped Harry, surrounding him completely, caging him in. Harry didn’t lash out. Tom wished he would. Harry protested any restraint to his freedom. He was hoping Harry would attack, would free himself, would show the fire that was so fundamental to his being.

He only curled himself into a tighter ball.

Tom looked around them in disgust. He couldn’t stand to be there a moment longer. Not in the dust-covered cupboard that he knew resembled Harry's childhood cage, not with the blood-stained sheets that had been used as a poor facsimile of his embrace, not with the blood-stained patch of floor behind him. Harry had had the right idea when he had decided to avoid this area of the house.

Tom was warming up to Harry’s previous suggestion to burn the house down. Unfortunately, he did not think the house would be so easily destroyed, and he didn’t relish the idea of finding out what would happen if they lashed out at the house again.

So, Tom just scooped Harry up in his arms. He was able to do it when he was human, but it was notably easier to do now that he had changed.

“Colin!” Tom snapped, “Where did our damn bathroom go?”

The ghost appeared in front of Tom, and gave him a puzzled look. “It's where it always is,” he said slowly. Tom was getting really sick of having his intelligence questioned today, which was obviously what Colin was doing.

Tom sneered at him, and headed up the stairs with Harry in his arms. He just ignored how unresponsive Harry was; he was bound to snap out of his fugue state at some point.

Sure enough, he did, more or less, but it was not how Tom hoped it would happen.

Tom had brought them to the master bathroom, and hosed them off in the shower before filling the bathtub with hot water for them to soak in. It was at this point that Harry said his first words.

“I’m a widower.” His tone was flat. He sounded more dead than Tom actually was. “My husband is dead. I'm a widower.”

It took a minute for Tom to respond. He supposed Harry wasn't technically wrong, but those were Umbitch's words not his. It was unacceptable that that was the first thing Harry said.

“I’ll marry you again,” Tom finally said, pulling Harry closer to him.

“Oh,” Harry laid his head back against Tom's shoulder, “okay.” He closed his eyes and failed to speak again until they were in bed.

He splayed himself over Tom's body, differently than usual. It was tinged with desperation. He didn’t just curl up and rest his head on Tom’s chest, he used his body to pin Tom to the bed. To make sure he wouldn’t be able to move without disturbing Harry. The position was not to enjoy their closeness, but to monitor and protect. It did not escape Tom’s notice that he was, in a way, shielding him with his body. It was absurd considering Tom’s new status, but he let it be for the night. He wouldn’t have made any progress if he tried to reassure Harry right then anyway.

“I love you,” Harry whispered and Tom returned the sentiment.

Tom regulated his breathing into an imitation of sleep. Harry wouldn’t close his eyes until he did. As the night progressed, Tom realized that he didn’t need to sleep anymore—that he couldn’t sleep anymore, but he stayed still, and pretended. Harry kept waking up and staring at him before going back to sleep. Tom tightened his arms around Harry each time. He wasn’t letting him go for anything.

The man-servant would not wake up.

It was understandable that it neglected her feeding when that damned demon had it under its control (Hedwig so very much enjoyed running her off), but now it was inexcusable. No matter how much she tugged and tugged on its weird feathers, it didn’t respond or move at all.

_ Inexcusable. _

She hadn’t tried to eat it yet, as it proved to be a good servant but that might have to change. Previously, she found that going after its unpleasant mate would make it get up and feed her, but she couldn’t do that now. Its mate was one of those damn demons. She had never had one of their brains before, and didn’t trust them.

Hedwig would huff if she could. This was not how an owl of her caliber (dead or alive) deserved to be treated. She was planning on biting the lazy man-servant’s ear, but its damned mate took notice of her.

It was making some strange sound, but that wasn’t important, it usually did. What mattered was the swinging undeveloped-wing—that always woke the manservant up. Hedwig wondered if her plan to train the mate might actually work.

The man-servant’s eyes opened, but instead of paying attention to Hedwig and performing its daily adulation, it turned to look at its mate, and smushed their faces together.

_ Absolutely unacceptable. _

Hedwig barked loudly, but the man-servant still did not pay her any attention. It was only the baby-demon that glared at her. Unfortunately, it’s demonic powers were…disturbing, maybe a bit uncomfortable. She barked once more in offense, then flew to the top of the weird-wide-wood perch and glared at the two.

She would wait, but she would punish them for this offensive behavior. When they least expected it…she would get them. Not too bad, of course, she still needed the slaves, but they would be forced to repent.

Harry woke on a soft, but firm surface. It was notably different than the hard wood he had woken up on for the past two weeks. As he drifted further into consciousness, he realized a lot of things were different than they usually were.

He could breath easily. There was no dust clogging his lungs. The smell of dried blood and death did not permeate his nose. Instead, there was the smell of skin and soap—Tom’s preferred brand, too. He was not swathed in sheets that had grown scratchy with grime.

Something had either gone very right or very wrong.

Harry opened his eyes.

His first sight was a pale expanse of skin. It was paler than Harry remembered, but not by much. He looked up. Sharp cheekbones, dark brown wavy hair with a stubborn curl that fell in the middle of his forehead, a smile that always looked slightly evil, no matter how much he tried to soften the edges of it, and a nice, strong jawline.

Harry knew there was a certain comfort in losing his mind. He did not think he ever wanted to regain his sanity.

His eyes were strangely crimson instead of grey, but it was close enough to a perfect match. Harry didn't care about that slight difference.

He smiled, “Tom.” He reached up a hand to cup his cheek then brought him into a kiss. One soft, filled with desperation and worship. “I missed you,” he brushed Tom’s hair back and stared into his eyes.

They were a different color but they still had the same look of adoration they always did when Tom looked at Harry. He just had to pull him into another kiss. Tom felt real, looked real, smelled real, sounded real when he said, “I love you.” Harry decided to live in this fantasy. There was really no place else he would rather be than back in Tom's arms.

He was lucky. The dream continued on for months.

Sure, some things were a little off. Hedwig was acting weird, and Tom seemed to have developed superpowers, but it was fine. Everything was perfect.

Tom was relieved when Harry died.

He loved his husband, and hadn’t been hoping for his death or anything when it happened, but it turned out to be a pretty great thing. Before Harry had died, he had gone around sincerely believing everything was a fantasy. His eyes were always wide, a smile plastered on his face, and whenever Tom didn't look completely happy, he would ask what was wrong in this scary-intense voice. Perhaps the most surreal part of it was that without his toes, Harry had had to relearn how to walk. Tom had helped him, of course, but it was not exactly a short process, and Harry hadn’t been content to stay still and wait. Instead, he had gotten it in his head that if he couldn't stand up, he could at least crawl. Several times Tom had checked to see if Harry was possessed. He wasn't. He was just trapped inside his own head, in the reality he made for himself, and stubbornly held onto. It was only when he died that he finally fucking snapped out of it.

And Tom stopped living in his own personal horror movie.

His sigh of relief at Harry's “What the fuck!? Is that my body!?” was probably inappropriate but it was sincerely-felt. It was the first time Harry sounded like himself since Tom had died. The glare he got for that sigh of relief was the cherry-on-top of the ice cream sundae that was Harry's death.

“Are you happy that I died?” Harry asked incredulously, “Holy hell, did I die?!?”

“Welcome to the afterlife,” Tom shrugged, with a huge smile on his face, “it is so nice to have you back.”

“I can’t believe you’re happy I’m dead!”

“I can’t believe dying fixed your mind!” Tom retorted, “Do you have any idea what it was like watching you crawl around with a soulless, empty stare?” Tom shivered, “Fucking creepy.”

“You still stayed with me,” Harry argued.

“Of course I did, I'd always stay with you.” Harry smiled happily, and went to kiss Tom, but phased right through his body instead. He frowned, and opened his mouth to say something, but Tom beat him to it.

“Hold on, I got this.” Tom ripped his spirit out of the mortal shell he was possessing, and floated towards Harry. They both ignored the hard impact of Tom’s corpse’s head against the floor. Tom, now on the same plane as Harry, grabbed his husband and kissed him, happy that Harry kissed back as he used to. Without fear and desperation, just absolute joy and love.

“She’s here again,” Harry snarled, “with another couple!”

He was referring to the real estate agent who seemed determined to sell the house. Contrary to Tom’s expectations, Harry had taken a fierce liking to the house and its inhabitants (he made Tom possess his corpse at least once a week to feed all of the little monsters), and a fierce dislike to the real estate agent who was trying to sell  _ their _ property. Like Tom, Harry didn’t think death meant a relinquishment of possession. More than that, however, the agent interrupted Harry and Tom’s second wedding night—Harry had insisted on getting remarried now that they both were dead—with a showing. Ever since, he was determined to run out everyone who would even think of buying the house. Unfortunately, the agent was equally determined to sell it.

Tom had expected Harry would be like Colin when it came to new people—friendly, and welcoming. He was wrong. Harry was combative and inhospitable to anyone who came into their domain. Tom was glad for it; he enjoyed this side of his husband. Harry wouldn’t let Tom take out any of his demonic urges on their fellow haunters (not even Myrtle, tragically enough), but he was more than willing to let Tom do whatever he wanted to the unwelcome visitors. As long as it didn't involve them becoming part of the haunt. (That was pretty open though, since Tom could send their souls straight down to hell—not that Harry knew that.)

“I need to have another  _ talk _ with her,” Harry muttered, eyes narrowed at the group walking into the house. “I’ll get the twins to drive  _ those _ people out.” Harry plotted aloud.

Tom could only sigh dreamily at him. Five years since their afterlife marriage, ten years since their first marriage, eighteen years since they had started a relationship, and he was still absolutely smitten. “Until death do we part” was obviously for couples far inferior to them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank/blame [Amanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duplicity/pseuds/duplicity) and [Trixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenzingy46/pseuds/goldenzingy46) for the extra angst. Trixie asked me if I was just going to keep the title and make it totally crack, then Amanda later asked what would happen if they tried to leave the house. Both of those got me thinking which resulted in this which is honestly better than I would've come up with without those questions so 
> 
> (btw both of them are awesome writers and you should check them out )


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